Thursday, February 22, 2007
project 365 #53: daffodil shoots
Because I'm not. I'm angry and I hate everyone. I hate that I can't get laid and I hate that the guy I really care about is impossible and I hate that the other guy who I have kind of liked for months now shot me entirely the fuck down tonight because, you know, I'm the kind of girl who's everybody's drinking buddy and fun friend and nobody's lover. I hate that a guy who I like but not in that way asked me out tonight and I couldn't figure out a way to say no (yeah, I can be desperate and picky, fuck you, if there's no chemistry there's no chemistry) and I hate that three men who I loved in my life are gone now.
And they were smart and funny and cynical dark men, like I like, who made me into what I am, which is I hope unto some maybe existing god is a smart and tough and cynical and funny dame, because that's what they liked. And tonight when a well meaning new acquaintance, on hearing of my month of loss and fucking death everywhere, leaned over and recited unto me an extremely soppy theoretically native american poem about how I shouldn't be mourning at their graves (which I'm totally not, not to mention that according to current human practice they've all been hygienically cremated and for what it's worth, if I have a tragic accident tonight getting into bed and clonk my head one time too hard on the door or something, I do NOT want to be cremated OR embalmed, no, motherfuckers, bury my ass deep in a garden somewhere. I'd prefer a barrow and my grave goods and a slave or two around me but failing that I want to decompose and leave my bones to this good or not so goddamn good earth, okay? No burning. No wax. No fake shit. Just bury me.) But anyway. It was a soppy sentimental poem and about three lines in I could see all three of these men turning disgusted to the bar, which was lovely and comforting. Because THEY HATED THAT SHIT AND SO DO I.
I'm sorry for the rant but you know what? I really can't handle another email of death and I really can't handle another man telling me that he only wants to be friends. I'm sorry, but I can't. I'm at my limit. One more and I don't know what the hell happens, but it isnt' going to be pretty. My mother used to say that the good lord only gives you as much as you can handle. I don't believe in the good lord, but I believe in a consortium of interested nature spirits, at least I used to think I do, and, please, I'm done.
I'm done. I can't take any more. Seriously. I am so done.